The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (292 page)

“So do I!” said Piers. “It seems a shame that Finch should have all the luck.”

Pheasant could remain in doubt no longer. “But what
are
they?”

“One doesn’t explain them,” replied Augusta, looking down her nose.

Renny regarded Finch with no good eye. “I don’t like your telling the youngster about such things. I don’t like it at all. I’ll have a word with you about this. Another cup of tea, Aunt, please.”

Good appetite had attended all the Whiteoaks at dinner, but Finch had eaten as though famished. In spite of the fact
that he was in acute disfavour, looked upon with suspicion and reproach, something inside him was ravening for food. He felt that if he could appease that something he might not feel so light-headed. But he rose from the table unsatisfied… If only he could escape and hide himself in the woods! Press his hot forehead against the cool earth and his breast upon the pine needles! He made a stumbling effort to go into the hall instead of returning to the sitting room with the others, but Nicholas laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t go away boy. I should like to ask you a few questions.”

“Yes,” agreed Ernest, on his other side, “I should like to find out something of the inside of this affair, if possible.”

Finch returned, as between jailers, to the torture room. He heard the clock on the landing strike two, and this was echoed in a silvery tone by the French clock in the drawing-room, and in an abrupt metallic voice by the clock on the mantelpiece of the sitting room. Nicholas took out his large hunting-case watch and looked at it… Ernest looked at his nails… Meg hung over her baby… Maurice dropped into a comfortable chair and began to fill his pipe with his active hand, the disabled one lying, unmoved and smooth, on the leather arm of the chair. Finch, seeing it, felt a sudden morbid envy of it. It was hopelessly injured, neglected, let alone… Renny took the muzzle of one of his spaniels in his lean brown hands, opened it, and examined the healthy white teeth… Piers, in a corner, laughed at Pheasant… Augusta produced a piece of crochet work from a bag, and a long, stabbing crochet-hook… Finch saw them all as torturers.

There was Rags, closing the folding doors upon them, seeming to say: “There naow, I leave you to your own
devices! Whatever you may gaow through, it’s all the sime to me!”

But not yet were they to settle down. A voice came from Grandmother’s room, crying: “Nick! Nick! Nick!”

Ernest clapped his hands on his ears.

“Boney!” ejaculated Nicholas, hoarsely. “God, what has come over the bird?”

“He has made up his mind,” said Augusta, “to torture us.”

Ernest cautiously removed his hands from his ears. “It is unbearable! I don’t know what we are going to do about it.”

Maurice suggested: “Perhaps it would be better to put him away, as he seems to be out of sorts and all that.”

Every blazing glance in the room branded him as an outsider.

“He will be all right,” said Renny, “as soon as he’s done moulting. He ought to have a few drops of brandy in his drinking water. I remember Gran used to give him that for a tonic. Fetch him in here, Wake. He needs company.”

The parrot was brought, squatting glumly on his perch, and placed in the middle of the room beside the ottoman on which Finch had uncomfortably disposed his lanky form. Boney ruffled himself, shook his wings, and three feathers drifted to the floor.

“It’s uncanny,” muttered Nicholas, “that he should have forgotten his Hindu, and should say only my name.”

“It’s dreadful,” said Ernest.

“I think,” declared Augusta, “there’s something portentous about it. It’s as though he were trying to tell us something.”

“He looks strangely agitated,” said Ernest.

Everyone looked at Boney, who returned melancholy stare for stare out of cold yellow eyes.

After a silence, Nicholas heaved himself in his chair and turned to Finch. “Did my mother ever give you reason to believe that she was going to leave her money to you?”

“No, Uncle Nick.” Finch’s voice was scarcely audible. “Did she ever speak to you of the disposal of her property?”

“No, Uncle Nick.”

“Did she ever speak to you of having made a new will?” “No—she never spoke of any will to me.”

“You had no faintest idea that her will was in your favour?”

“No.”

“Then you would have us believe that you were as much surprised as we were this morning when Patton read the will?”

Finch flushed deeply. “I—I was terribly surprised.” “Come, come,” put in Piers, “don’t expect us to believe that! You never turned a hair when Patton read the will. I was looking at you. You knew damn well what was coming.”

“I didn’t!” shouted Finch. “I didn’t know a thing about it!”

“Stay!” said Nicholas. “Don’t get blustery, Piers. I want to untwist this tangle, if possible.” His eyes, under his shaggy brows, pierced Finch. “You say you were as astonished as the rest of us by the will. Just tell us, please, what in your opinion was my mother’s reason for making you her heir.”

Finch twisted his hands between his knees. He wished some tidal wave might rise and sweep him from their sight.

“Yes,” urged Ernest, “tell us why you think she did such a thing. We are not angry at you. We only want to find out
whether there was any reason for such an extraordinary act.”

“I don’t know of any reason,” stammered Finch. “I—I wish she hadn’t!”

He did himself no good by this admission. The words coming from his mouth, drawn in misery, made him the more contemptible.

Nicholas turned to Augusta. “ What was that about Mama’s talking to herself? Something about a Chinese goddess.”

Augusta laid down her crochet work. “I couldn’t make itout. Just some mumbled words about Finch and the goddess Kuan Yin. It was then she said that he had more—you know what. I prefer not to repeat it.”

“Now, what about this Chinese goddess, Finch? Do you know what my mother meant by coupling your name with such a strange one?”

“I don’t see why she should have,” he hedged, weakly. “Did she at any time mention a Chinese goddess to you?”

“Yes.” He was floundering desperately. “She said I might learn—she—that is, she said I might get to understand something of life from her.”

“From her?”

“Yes. Kuan Yin.”

“This is worth following up,” said Vaughan.

“It sounds as though Gran and Finch were both a little mad at the time,” said his wife.

“At the time,” repeated Nicholas. “Just how long ago did this conversation take place?”

“Oh, quite a bit ago. At the beginning of summer.” Nicholas said, pointing at Finch with his pipe: “Now, tell us exactly what led up to this conversation.”

Ernest interrupted him, nervously: “The little Chinese goddess Mama brought from India! Of course. I have not seen the little figure for some time. Strange I didn’t miss it! Have you noticed it lately, Augusta?”

Augusta tapped the bridge of her nose sharply with her crochet-hook, as though to stimulate her faculty of nosing out secrets. “No—I have not. It is gone! It is
gone from Mama’s room!
It has been stolen!”

Finch burned his bridges. “No, it hasn’t. She gave it to me.” “Where is it?” demanded Nicholas.

“In my room.”

“I was in your room this morning,” said Augusta. “I thought I smelled something strange. The goddess was not there! I should have noticed instantly!”

Finch cared for nothing now but to have this cross-questioning done with. He said, with weary contempt for the consequences: “You did not see her because she is hidden. I keep her hidden. The stuff you smelled was incense. I was burning it before her at sunrise. I forgot to shut my door when I came down.”

If Finch had suddenly produced horns on his young brow, or hoofs instead of worn brown shoes, he could scarcely have appeared as a greater monstrosity to his family. The monotonous pressure of their various personalities upon his bruised spirit was violently withdrawn. The recoil was so palpable that he raised his head and drew a deep breath, as though inhaling a draught of fresh air.

They drew back shocked from a Whiteoak who had risen at sunrise to burn incense before a heathen goddess. What sort of abortion had the English governess—young Philip’s second wife—produced? That they, Courts and Whiteoaks— gentlemen, soldiers, “goddamming” country squires—
should come to this! A white-faced, wincing boy who did fantastic things in his attic room while his family slept! And to this one had old Adeline, toughest-fibred of them all, left her money!

Their invincible repugnance toward such a deviation from their traditions caused a tremor of bewilderment to shake their tenacity. Finch, slumping on his ottoman, seemed a creature apart.

But this spurious advantage was soon past. The circle tightened again.

Nicholas, his chin gripped in his hand, said: “When I was at Oxford there were fellows who did that sort of thing. I never thought to see a nephew of mine…”

“He’ll be turning Papist next,” said Piers. “Look at those candles he set up around poor old Gran!”

“Yes, and you allowed him to do it!” exclaimed Augusta, accusingly to Nicholas.

Nicholas ignored this. He continued: “You expect us to believe that you hoped to gain nothing by my mother’s will, when in secret she was giving you valuable presents?”

“I didn’t know it was valuable.”

Meg cried: “You must have thought it was very strange that she should be giving away things she had treasured all these years! The goddess—the ruby ring!”

“What motive had you in hiding the present?” probed Nicholas.

“I dunno.”

“Yes. You do know. Don’t lie. We’re going to get to the bottom of this!”

“Well, it was hers, I thought. I didn’t think—I knew she wouldn’t want it mentioned.”

“And what else?”

“I thought I’d get into a row.”

“Just for having a present given you? Come, now!” Ernest interjected: “But why should she have given him anything? I can’t make it out!”

Piers grinned sarcastically. “Look at him, and you’ll understand. He’s such an intriguing young devil. I am always longing to give him something.”

Renny spoke, from where he sat on the window seat. “Cut that out, Piers.”

Nicholas continued: “Were you often alone with my mother? I don’t remember ever finding you together!

Finch writhed; his chin sank to his breast. He set his teeth.

Renny said: “Make a clean breast of it, Finch! Hold your head up.”

He was intolerably miserable. He could not bear it. Yet he must bear it. They would give him no peace till they had everything out of him.

“Buck up!” said Renny. “You didn’t steal the goddess, or the money either. Don’t act as though you had!”

Finch raised his head. He fixed his eyes on Augusta’s crochet work, which lay on her lap, and said in a husky voice:

“I’ve been going to the church to practise on the organ at night. Once, when I came in very late, Gran called me. I went into her room and we talked together. That was the night she gave me the goddess. After that I went often—almost every night.” He stopped with a jerk.

There was a sultry silence while they waited for him to go on.

Nicholas nudged him, almost gently. “Yes? You went every night to my mother’s room. You talked. Would you mind telling me what about?”

“I talked about music, but not much. She did most of the talking. The old days here—her life in India, and about when she was a young girl in the Old Country.”

Ernest cried: “No wonder she was drowsy in the daytime! Awake half the night talking!”

Finch was reckless now. They might as well have some-thing to rage about. “I used,” he said, “to go to the dining room and get biscuits and glasses of sherry and that made her enjoy it more. It helped keep her awake.”

“No wonder she was drowsy! No wonder she was absent-minded!” cried Ernest, almost in tears.

Augusta said, with dreadful solemnity: “No wonder that for the last month her breakfast trays have come away almost untouched!”

“I saw her failing day by day!” wailed Meg.

Nicholas cast a grim look at those about him. “This has probably shortened her life by years.”

“It has killed her!” said Ernest, distractedly

“He’s little better than a murderer!” said Augusta.

He could look them in the eyes now. They knew the worst. He was a monster, and a murderer. Let them take him out and hang him to the nearest tree! He was almost calm.

Their tempers were surging this way and that like waves driven by variable winds. They were all talking at once, blaming him, blaming each other, desperately near to blaming old Adeline! And the voice of Uncle Nicholas, like the voice of the seventh wave, was the most resonant, the most terrible. It was the voice of the wronged eldest son.

Presently the voice of Piers, full of malicious laughter, disentangled itself from the others. He was saying: “The whole thing is a tremendous joke on the family We thought Finch was queer. A weakling. But, don’t you see, he’s the
strongest, the sanest, of the lot? He’s been pulling the wool over everybody’s eyes for years. Poor, harmless, hobbledehoy Finch! Well-meaning, but so simple! I tell you, he’s as cool and calculating as they make them! He’s had this under his hat ever since he came back from New York!”

“Rot!” said Renny.

“You’d stand up for him, Renny! Why, he’s fooled you all along! Didn’t he trick you into thinking he went in to Leighs’ to study, when he was up to his eyes in play-acting? Didn’t he trick you nicely over the orchestra? He was supposed to be studying then, and he was playing the piano in cheap restaurants, and coming home drunk in the morning! And now he’s tricked you out of Gran’s money!” The laughter had died out of his voice—it was savage.

Enraged, Finch cried out: “Shut up! It’s a pack of lies!” “Deny that you ever set out to deceive Renny!”

“What about you? You deceived him when you got married!”

“I wasn’t
cheating
him out of anything!”

Finch rose to his feet, his arms rigid at his side, his hands clenched. “I’m not cheating Renny! I don’t want to cheat anyone. I don’t want the money! I want to give it back! I won’t take it! I won’t take it—I won’t take it—”